


After The Miracle

by camichats



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 21:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18925324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camichats/pseuds/camichats
Summary: Jon died but came back. Tormund knows that, but in his sleep-addled mind, he panicks at seeing Jon look the same way he did when dead.





	After The Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> Has someone already written this? Yes, but you can never have too much of a good thing.

Jon had pushed the furs off of himself in the middle of the night. He did that pretty often for a southerner up north. Frankly, Tormund didn't understand how the man hadn't frozen to death yet,the way he was always getting rid of his furs like they were smothering him. 

He was laying on his back. Not so strange since that's how he slept _every_  night. Except for those times that Tormund made it uncomfortable for him to sleep that way for the ache in his arse, but last night he'd been unendingly gentle with Jon's body. 

So with the covers down, and Jon sleeping on his back, and his chest naked because last night they'd fucked and he wasn't going to get dressed after that just to go to sleep, the wounds marring his skin were glaringly obvious. Unhealed, angry red marks, injuries that were far too numerous for comfort, not to mention they were wounds that had _killed_  him. This wasn't a near miss, it was a bloody miracle following a tragedy. Jon had been dead, lost forever, and only a god's intervention had brought him back. But Tormund had spent an entire day staring at his dead body, and that meant he remembered it a lot more vividly than just one night of him being alive again. 

Which meant that Tormund woke up in the middle of the night to get more comfortable, rolled over, saw Jon looking the same as he had laid out on that table when dead, and panicked. "Jon!" He reached for his shoulder, and Jon woke with a violent start, scrambling for his sword that was leaned against the wall next to the bed. 

He was on his feet, sword drawn before Tormund could tell him that there wasn't any danger. He stumbled a bit, ready to fight even if he wasn't ready to be awake. 

Tormund's heart sank in guilt. "There's nothing Jon, I'm sorry. Come back to bed." He held out a hand, and it used to be that Jon would take it in an instant and let himself be pulled back onto the mattress, all the while muttering that maybe he should start sleeping alone if this was the kind of grief he could expect. But he didn't do that. 

Jon looked around, needing to make sure they were alone in their room before he relaxed an inch. He looked a touch silly, walking around with his prick out but a sword in his hand. Tormund couldn't find the humour in the situation though, not when Jon was making sure the bar over the door was secure and his grip on Longclaw made his knuckles white with strain. 

"There's no one here but us," he said when Jon went to check the room again. "I didn't mean to wake you, come back to bed." 

He stopped walking, but he didn't relax in the slightest. "You don't know that," he rasped. 

"You already checked. The door's barred, no one's getting in." 

"That wouldn't stop them," he muttered. 

"I'd protect you." 

"Like you did before?" 

Tormund flinched, and Jon froze, hand flexing around the handle of his sword. 

"I-" he stopped short. "Sorry." 

"No," Tormund said, shaking his head. "You're right." 

Jon re-sheathed the sword with a loud click. "About what? That you weren't with me because I snuck out of bed in the middle of the night? It's not your fault." 

"But you still blame me." 

He didn't say anything, but the guilt in his expression was more than enough. 

Tormund sighed, laying back down. 

"It's not your fault," Jon said again, hesitating to rejoin him in their bed. 

"I told you I'd always be there when you needed me, and I wasn't. Not that complicated." 

"You've always been there for me," Jon said weakly. "Hardhome. With Stannis Baratheon." 

He snorted. "Yeah I was there. When I wasn't, you died. Pretty sure that means I failed." 

Jon stood for a minute longer, trying to think of something to say, some way to salvage this. When he couldn't, he sighed and climbed back into bed, with every motion irrationally concerned that Tormund would tell him to leave-- he didn't. 

Tormund rolled on his side to sleep, facing Jon. This would only be fixed with time, not words. He scowled when he saw that Jon was laying on his back again, pulling the furs up to cover his chest. He grabbed Jon and slid him over so that, even if he ended on his back again at some point in the night, he would be close enough that Tormund could easily feel the heat of his body. 

"I thought you were mad at me," Jon said, confused. 

"The fuck would I be mad at you?" 

"Because I blame you," he admitted quietly. "I don't want to. I know it's stupid." 

"It's not stupid." Pause. "Eh, maybe a bit." 

He felt more than heard Jon's sigh. "I'm sorry." 

"Nothing to be sorry for little crow. Go to sleep." 


End file.
